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Chapter III: The Dark Heart of Bleak Falls

19th-20th of Last Seed, the Year of Our Divine Sovereign 4E 81

"The Nords sometimes wonder why we do not do more to aid them in their constant petty arguments with the Elvish races. They think we are still the servants of the Altmer, that we have no respect for our status as men. Never do they question if it is their own actions that drive us away. After all, if the first impression you had of a people was that they were a race of hairy, screaming barbarians that stole your sacred artifacts, burned your temples and demanded you forsake your gods and kings and join them in their slaughter, would you want anything more to do with them? The Nords should be grateful we have as much tolerance for their foolishness as we do."

Aled Graylynn, Earl of Dwynnen, 3E 146 - 3E 291, Personal Journal

"Lydia, a question if I may?"

"You don't need my permission to ask a question, my lady. Ask."

"Were you truly so cold to Sebastien when you first met?"

"Ha! Most definitely, but in my defense I was rather on edge at the time. A Breton with too clever a tongue showing up out of the white didn't help matters."

"I found Sebastien rather charming the first time we met."

"Yes, well you did end up marrying the man."

When Sebastien walked up to the base of the mountain that led to Bleak Falls Barrow, he was surprised to see he wasn't alone. Tied to a tree were two horses, idly watching him as he approached. They didn't appear to be malnourished or suffering from thirst, so they couldn't have been there for very long. They might have belonged to the bandits, as Phoebus once had. Walking past them, he continued his way up the mountain, but it wasn't long before he ran into something else that gave him pause.

A crude stone tower was perched on the edge of the mountain, overlooking Riverwood far below. Jutting out from the slope, it had only one approach, a bridge leading off from the path up the mountain to Bleak Falls Barrow. While it clearly wasn't a headquarters or some other place of import, it could have easily proved to be able to make his life very unpleasant. Or rather, it would have been if the bandits that had been guarding it weren't all dead. Three bodies were lying on the ground, clearly brigands from their mismatched patchwork armor, their blood pooling into snow and staining it red. Kneeling down, Sebastien examined the corpse of an Orc. There was a deep continuous slash mark going diagonally from its lower right abdomen and ending at its upper right collarbone. Deep and unbroken from end to end, likely came from a longsword. Another body nearby – this time a Nord – had a different kind of wound. A wide and deep gash into the abdomen, breaking the lowest two rows of ribs and exposing both the diaphragm and upper intestines. Too wide to be a sword, even a greatsword and the wound goes into the stomach, not slashed to one side. Likely some type of axe then.

An argument that got too out of hand? Unlikely, that wouldn't explain the horses. He might have thought it a rival tribe if not for the fact that the corpses hadn't been looted. Outsiders then, perhaps bounty hunters or guardsman. If so, He might just be able to come to an accord with them. Searching the tower itself gave him more evidence that this wasn't the work of bandits, what paltry gold was there had been left untouched and was quickly swept into his own purse, joining what he had found on the bodies. Going upstairs revealed a third body, another Nord. Unlike the first two, there were no blade wounds present. Instead, the body's skull was caved into a trench and the jaw was clearly broken, flopping uselessly as Sebastien moved the head back and forth. The trench was too narrow and to clean to have been made by a mace or maul. He could only assume then that it was instead a blow from a heavy shield that killed the bandit.

He came upon a locked chest on the top floor, and decided that he might as well try to open it and see what was inside. Judging by the lockpicks scattered around, the bandits had thought the same once. When he tried the lock, he found it still trapped tight. Well, that was easily rectified. He pressed his hand against the cool metal of the lock, letting his magicka pool first into his mind before focusing it into his hand. In his mind's eye, he saw the inner mechanisms of the lock, the springs and key pins and driver pins. He imagined that the pins shifted, that springs compressed and loosened and smiled as he heard the lock click open. Inside he found some gold and a few small gems, as a well as a blue hood spun from heavy wool and lined with fur. It looked plain enough, but when his fingers touched it he felt magic thrum within. When he pulled it on, he felt the well of magicka within him intensify. Useful, to find a mage's hood here. Looking down at the blood-soaked snow below him, Sebastien felt a strange hope. Now to meet the welcome party.

The entrance to Bleak Falls Barrow had been guarded by four bandits. The key word being had, naturally. Four bloody bodies were left sprawled on the snow, their weapons lying abandoned around them. After looting the damned for a few distasteful, but lucrative minutes, Sebastien took in his surroundings. Bleak Falls was seemingly carved from the mountain itself, with a great stone platform leading to the entrance jutting out from the mountainside. Overhead was a row of massive stone archways, resembling the exposed ribs of some long dead animal. Similarly, the doors to the barrow were huge and made from heavy stone. Fortunately for Sebastien, they were already open, allowing him to quietly slip into the ruin. The hall was cavernous and completely dark save for the sunlight that spilled through the cracked doorway and a small campfire on the other side. A campfire with two living people surrounding it.

They were both Nords, a man and a woman, but there were differences between them. The man was dressed in simple hide armor and wielded a massive battleax. What little of his face that wasn't hidden under a bushy red beard was covered in strange, angular marks made from some blue dye. The woman on the other hand, more closely resembled a professional soldier or guard. She was wearing a tabard dyed yellow and brown over a set of castle-forged steel, strapped to her back was a shield with some kind of symbol on it, though it was too dark for Sebastien to make out what exactly it was. On her hip was a sword. Hmm, a sword and axe. They must be the ones who killed those bandits. Quietly, he drew closer, not wanting to startle them. Sebastien realized that he had an opportunity here to make getting the claw easier. He would need to approach this diplomatically.

As he neared the campfire, the woman spotted him. "Come out into the light now!" she demanded, unsheathing her sword. Behind her, the man pulled out his axe, but didn't say a word.

"Alright, alright, I'm coming out, no reason to get excited." With his hands in the air as a show of non-aggression, Sebastien stepped forward from behind a pillar. He could get a better look at the woman now. On her tabard was the symbol of a horse's head, something he had been told represented Whiterun Hold. The woman's long, dark brown hair framed her severe face as she eyed Sebastien with suspicion. He smiled in return. "Good morning," he said, as though being held at sword point within an abandoned burial hall was a perfectly mundane experience.

"Name yourself and your intentions here or you go to the White."

"I am Sebastien Ciero D'Wayrest, and I am here on behalf of one Lucan Valerius of the Riverwood Trader. The bandits that you so helpfully dealt with stole an item and he wishes for me to retrieve it." Pausing, as though in thought, he added. "I don't suppose either of you has seen a claw made of gold, have you?" When neither answered, he clucked his tongue in disappointment. "I thought not."

"You should not be here, mercenary. This is a place for the dead to rest." Her manner was brusque and professional. She must have been in charge between the two Nords. Despite her harsh words, the woman lowered her sword, though did not sheathe it.

"Yes, but I'm afraid that the bandits have made themselves a nuisance to the living and so I must be here to correct it," He chose not to comment on the mercenary remark. "I'm sure the dead will not mind if the bandits join them in rest. More to the point, now that you know my name, might I ask the same of you?"

The woman reluctantly sheathed her sword and answered gruffly. "Korporal Lydia Hagomdottir of Whiterun."

The man stepped forward. "Faltur Thunder-Singer," he offered, his voice a low rumble.

Sebastien gave a short bow. "A pleasure. You have my gratitude for dealing with those bandits, but if I might ask, what brings you to this grim crypt?"

"We're here on behalf of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun Hold. There's… an item here that he has reason to believe may help with these rumors of dragons." Lydia answered cryptically.

Sebastien smiled. "Then I have some news that might help you, Korporal Lydia." At the guardswoman's curious look, he continued. "I have news from Helgen about the dragon attack." That certainly got the Nord's attention.

"You do?" she asked, her manner changing at once. Her cool disdain vanished, replaced with an intense focus as closed in on him, urgency flaring in her eyes. "Do you believe it will move on to Whiterun? Speak quickly, lives could be at stake!"

"No! It headed northwest, not directly toward the city. I know for a fact both the Empire and the Stormcloaks have been alerted by those who were there. My understanding is that Whiterun is neutral in the conflict, and the smith in Riverwood thought I should bring my story to assist the jarl with the defense of the district."

She relaxed back into her professional stance, passion submerged as though it never was.

"Actually," Sebastien interrupted. "I was hoping that we might be able to help each other." Alright, time to see if we can't make a deal. If so, it could make the foreseeable future much easier to handle. If not... well, he's been in worse situations. "I will help you find the item you're searching for, if in return you help me find the golden claw."

To Lydia's credit, she took the time to think the deal over, not immediately agreeing or dismissing him out of hand. "You only want the claw, nothing else?"

"If you're worried about me rifling through your ancestors' belongings, don't be. I doubt they can offer me a better bounty than Lucan did." He wasn't going to mention the bodies of the bandits that he had already looted.

After a moment, Lydia came to a decision. "Very well, Ciero, Faltur and I will help you find this claw for Lucan and in return you'll help us find what we're looking for and you will come with me back to Whiterun to corroborate your story to Jarl Balgruuf."

That gave Sebastien pause. It wasn't an unreasonable request admittedly, but Sebastien had been hoping to simply give her the message, take the claw, and be on his way. Still… it did make sense to want to bring an eyewitness if Jarl Balgruuf was to be convinced and he did promise Hadvar… Sebastien sighed. Damn it all, he thought and nodded. "As you wish, Korporal. I'll return with you to Whiterun, but only after I've returned the claw to Lucan, agreed?"

"Agreed," Lydia said and offered her hand. Sebastien shook it firmly. "Let's get going then, Bleak Falls awaits."

The path leading deeper into the barrow was a winding tunnel of crumbling stone and vines spilling across the floor. The three moved more or less in a line, with Lydia leading the front by torchlight, Sebastien behind her and the silent Faltur taking up the rear. The tunnel was empty of life save a few large rat-like animals Lydia referred to as 'Skeevers'. As they walked, Sebastien tried to learn a bit more about just what the pair were doing here.

"So, tell me, Korporal, just what is this item we're searching for?"

Lydia barely glanced back at him as she answered. "We're looking for a small stone tablet. It'll probably be in one of the caskets deeper into the crypt."

Her response gave Sebastien pause. Now that he thought about, there was a distinct lack of any evidence that they were in a tomb. At most, there were the tools of a mortician; crumbling and tattered linen gauze, small, rusted devices for making incisions in the body, and jars of foul smelling and ancient embalming fluid, but there were no bodies, no caskets, no niches. What type of crypt has no dead? When he brought up his thoughts to his companions, Sebastien was momentarily surprised when it was not Lydia who answered, but the giant Faltur.

"One that was not always a crypt," The Nord answered simply. So far, the man had been largely quiet, seemingly content to let Lydia spearhead this impromptu expedition. To hear him speak now and with such certainty was interesting.

"If not a crypt, than what purpose could such a building serve?" Bleak Falls Barrow was clearly not something built for some mundane purpose. It had been carved from the very mountain itself.

"A temple," Faltur answered. "One dedicated to the Dragon Cult of old Atmora. It only became a tomb after its Priest died. The Dragonstone will be buried with him, within his sepulcher at the heart of barrow."

"How do you know all this?"

"I am my tribe's skald. It is my duty to keep our history alive through the stories I keep. Even the ones that bring us nothing but shame and the pain of old wounds."

"Your tribe?" Sebastien asked, confused.

"Faltur's not from the city like I am," Lydia spoke up at last, sparing them a glance from behind. "His tribe, the Sky-Runner Clan, had lived on the plains of Whiterun for centuries. They prefer the Old Ways of living."

Ah. Now, Sebastien understood. There were many in High Rock who preferred the same. The Druids of High Isle who stilled lived as they did before the Direnni, the Wyrd Covens who worshipped the Fae-folk, even the damnable Reachmen and their pagan Old Gods. Sebastien had more respect for the former than some might feel was appropriate and a contempt for the latter that was shared by many who bore witness to Reachmen atrocities.

"It is a humbler way of life," Faltur opinioned, nodding his head sagely. "We live as the Atmorans did, before the Frost Fall saw the death of summer."

"If so, then why are you here? Doing the work of a lord who's not your own?"

Faltur shrugged. "The same reason as you, I suppose. The return of the Dragons affect everyone, if Balgruuf's clever man says that the Dragonstone will help, I'll see it returned to him."

Before the conversation could go any longer, Lydia stopped suddenly. She motioned for both men to stay silent and low to the ground, before pointing forward. They were standing at the top of a small staircase overlooking a large chamber. Inside was a single bandit observing a locked gate. In front of the gate was a rusty lever. Nodding together, the three slowly, but silently drew their weapons, only to find that there was no need. The second the bandit pulled the lever, he was pierced by a veritable hailstorm of iron darts shot out of the walls, causing him to collapse to ground and perish as he blood seeped out of his mangled flesh. Faltur shook his head,

"The ancients guarded their secrets fiercely."

Once inside the chamber, the three of them searched for a way to open the gate without risking impalement. The only way that could tell involved moving three pillars depicting the old Atmoran animal totems to match the pattern of the same totems carved into the wall. Despite one of the carvings being partially broken, they managed to successfully piece together the right answer. As Sebastien pulled the lever, the rusted iron gate slid open with a creak, and three continued further into the barrow.

Lydia Hagomdottir kept her eyes forward as she led their little group deeper into another crumbling passageway, the torch in her hands providing a weak and flickering light. Behind her Faltur and the Breton mercenary had gone silent, the sounds of their heavy footsteps the only thing letting her know that they were still there. "How much father until the Dragonstone, Faltur?" Lydia asked. The dim torch light made walls and halls blend into each other in such a way that made it impossible to tell how far and how long they had walked.

"We're getting close to the burial chambers now. Keep your blade ready, Man-Elf, the dead don't appreciate intruders."

"I am not a Man-Elf." Lydia wasn't sure what to make of the Breton. She hadn't expected a mercenary to just show up out of the White like that, though maybe she should have. The brigands had been harassing the White River valley for a few weeks now, someone was bound to fund some outside help eventually. As they walked, she began to notice that the cobwebs clinging to the cracks and corners of the barrow were growing more frequent and even larger. Lydia frowned, watching a fat spider tug a helpless fly closer on one such web. Perhaps it was nothing, but she couldn't shake the feeling that it wouldn't just be brigands they would have to deal with.

It won't matter either way. Jarl Balgruuf trusted me with this, and I won't let him down.

However, it seemed that someone had heard their voices. From up ahead in the tunnel, a panicked voice called out. "Is…is someone coming? Is that you Harknir? Bjorn? Soling?"

Racing forward, the three were briefly started to see the path forward block by a thick barrier of some kind of spider silk. Rasing his hand, Sebastien summed forth a roaring torrent of red-hot fire, burning away at the webbing and allowing the three of them to enter a large chamber. Inside, the chamber was like something out of a nightmare. The walls were covered with spider silk and littered across the ground were large shapes covered in that same webbing. Some were small, the size of the Skeevers, but others… others were larger… larger and man-sized. At the end of the chamber, trapped in webbing that blocked the only other door was a dark elf. Before they could even start questioning him, the sound of scuttling legs came from above.

Out of a dark tunnel in the ceiling came a massive Frostbite spider, lowering its bulk down on a strand of webbing as thick as a tree trunk. Halfway down, the webbing was destroyed by a bolt of lightning! Lydia spun her head in time to see Sebastien lowering his hand as the spider came crashing to the floor, the ground shaking under its weight. Unfortunately for them, the fall hadn't killed the spider. By the time they had drawn their weapons, the spider was already back on its leg, glaring at them. Several of its legs were damaged and some vile black liquid was oozing from gashes in its body, though whether that was from the fall or some earlier fight, Lydia didn't know.

The spider reared back suddenly as from its clicking mandibles, it spat out a glob of blinding venom. Lydia raised her shield, keeping the venom from touching her as Faltur and the Breton ran forward. With two threats racing toward it, the spider was momentarily frozen in indecision, long enough for the Breton to launch several bolts of lightning into its hide, causing the spider to fall back, its carapace smoking. Lydia ran forward to join the two, not willing to be left out of the fight.

She ducked under another flying venom glob and swung her blade at the spider as it narrowly dodged an axe strike from Faltur. Her sword severed two legs, causing viscous dark ichor to go flying. The spider tried hitting her again, only for her to scurry under it and jab her blade into its soft lower body. The spider let out some hideous shriek from the pain as Lydia rolled out from underneath it, just barely avoiding being crushed as it slammed its body into the ground. The spider scuttled back on its remaining legs as the Breton sent another barrage of lightning into its body, screeching as its eyes boiled from the magic.

The spider was near its end now, blind, ichor pouring from its body and stumbling drunkenly on its last legs. Still, it fought, blindly swinging its clawed legs. Faltur weaved through the clumsy strikes and brought his axe down onto the spider's head, crushing carapace and brain and causing the spider to finally collapse onto its side. The fight was finished.

Lydia breathed heavily, nearly gagging on the stench of rancid ichor and burnt spider flesh. She pointedly looked away from the spider's twitching remains and walked up the bound elf, Faltur and the Breton behind her. The elf smiled as she approached.

"You did it! You killed that thing, now cu-"

"Are you the leader of the bandits?" Lydia cut off the elf, glaring at him.

The elf's red eyes widened, his mouth gaping a bit life a fish dragged from the river. Evidently, it had not yet occurred to the brigand that they weren't also bandits. As the elf stammered a bit, she turned toward the Breton.

"Ciero, your claw?"

The Breton stepped forward. Ignoring the elf's feeble protests, he took out the claw from where it was tied to the bandit's belt. It was exactly as Lucan had described it, a small golden ornament in the shape of a dragon's claw. Turning it over, he was surprised to see three images carved into the palm: a bear, a moth, and an owl.

"Hey now, that's mine-" The elf started, but the Breton quickly interrupted.

"It's not," he said brusquely. "You stole this two nights ago from the Riverwood Trader, is that correct?"

"I-well…you see, I…" The fumbled with an excuse before sighing and glaring at the Breton. "Fine. So, what if I did? That Imperial s'wit doesn't have a clue what that claw actually is!"

"And what, pray tell is that?" When the elf tried to be mum on the subject, Ciero added. "Keep in mind, I'm perfectly content with leaving you here to starve, brigand." Lydia had to hold back a small snigger at the look of panic that flashed across the Elf's face.

"The Imperial thinks its just some pretty decoration, but it's not. It's a key! The Claw, the Door, I know how it all works. You won't believe the power these Nords are holding down here!"

Sebastien was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, turning towards Faltur, he asked. "Is this true?"

Faltur nodded. "Aye, past the crypt is a door, a puzzle door. Keep that Claw close, Man-Elf, it is the only way to reach to Dragonstone."

Lydia stepped forward. "The question now is, what to do with the brigand?" She gestured toward the still-bound elf.

Faltur grunted. "Best to just kill him and be done with it." The thief's face paled, and he started whimpering, begging them for mercy, promising gold and treasure if they let him live. The sight of it made Lydia's stomach sour. At least try to have some dignity, thief.

"Perhaps it be better to simply bind him." The Breton suggested. "He can face trial in Whiterun once we return with the Dragonstone."

"Yes! Yes, please! Take me to Whiterun, I'll behave!" The elf desperately grasped onto the only lifeline he had. Lydia ignored his begging and mulled over the choice. The Breton's idea had surprised her. She hadn't expected him to suggest sparing the Elf. It wasn't as if there was a bounty on his head, bringing him in alive wouldn't grant the mercenary any more of a reward. `On the other hand, Faltur's idea – while practical – left her feeling uneasy. Killing the brigands before had been self-defense, killing one helpless and bound felt cowardly.

Lydia sighed. Damn it all, I know I'm going to regret this. "Fine, well do your idea, Ciero. Faltur cut the thief down, but keep his hands bound." Turning toward the elf, Lydia raised the tip of her sword to his throat. "If you try to run, I'll gut you. Understand?"

The elf glared back at her, but nodded. "Yes, I understand." Faltur carefully cut away at the webbing binding the thief and blocking the doorway. Lydia and the Breton kept their swords pointed at the thief, reminding him of the futility of running. The second the elf fell to the ground, Faltur seized him by the scruff of his neck, holding him still long enough for Ciero to fashion some leftover spider silk into makeshift binds, keeping the thief's hands locked together.

With the Golden Claw in their possession and the bandit leader as their prisoner, they left the spider nest, Lydia leading them by torchlight into the crypts.

Leaving the spider queen's still-twitching corpse behind, Sebastien walked alongside Faltur and the Dunmer thief, following the bobbing light of Lydia's torch. True to Faltur's word, the room past the spider nest was a crypt. Small niches in the walls held up the mummified remains of long-dead Nords, dressed and wielding rusted scraps of armor and weapons.

It was unfortunate for them that the dead would not rest for long.

The second they stepped over the threshold; the dead began to stir. They clambered off of their shelves, their dried bones creaking as the drew ruined swords and axes. Sebastien immediately unsheathed his sword in turn, as did Lydia. Faltur threw the captured thief to the ground, who cowered behind the towering Nord as he drew his axe. The dead charged the living, growling harsh utterances in some strange, guttural language. Sebastien raised his hand and from his palm flew out rays of pearly sunlight that set the parchment-like skin of one of the wights alight. The wight screamed like an animal as its head caught fire, dropping its axe and clawed at its burning face as the other two marched forward. Marched, Sebastien noted. They didn't shamble like risen corpses. There existed some remnant of sentience within them, though not enough to be reasoned with. That was made clear as one swung its sword at Lydia, only for her shield to block the strike. The wight simply shrugged off the defense, but the same couldn't be said for Lydia. Sebastien had no way of knowing how much power had been behind the strike, but it was clearly enough to leave the Nord fumbling.

He raced forward to intervene. Drawing from the well of magicka, he summoned another bolt of Archei's light, one powerful enough to knock the wight back into the wall. Lydia took the opening and with a swing of her sword, lopped the undead Nord's head off, spattering dark ancient embalming fluid on the stone wall. As the wight's body collapsed to the ground, Sebastien was suddenly forcibly turned around. Before him was the wight he had burned earlier, its face a twisted mess of burnt skin and exposed bone. It seized him by the throat with one hand and with tremendous, unnatural strength lifted him, armor and all, off the ground. "Dir Volaan!" It growled in its unknown language. Sebastien gasped for air as the wight's skeletal hand slowly crushed his throat. He raised his sword to strike at it only for the wight to seize his wrist with its unoccupied hand. Lights danced before Sebastien's eyes as his vision darkened only for the wight to let go of him as a steel sword was run through its body.

Sebastien fell to the ground gasping for breath as out of the corner of his eye he saw Lydia dueling the wight. Lifting his arm, he sent another white-hot blast of sunlight at the undead Nord, setting it alight as the korporal struck it down. With the wight dead, the guardswoman ran to Sebastien. "Are you alright, Ciero?"

Rubbing his throat, Sebastien managed to rasp. "Yes, yes, I'll be fine." Helping him to his feet, Lydia returned his sword to him. "I-thank you, korporal." He panted, letting the musty air of the tomb fill his burning lungs. Well, now I know how strong these wights are. By now Faltur had finished off the last wight, burying the head of his axe into its skull. The pale blue lights of the revenant's eyes went out as it collapsed to the ground. The Clan-Nord turned towards them, a furious look on his face.

"The elf ran away."

Sebastien's eyes widened. Looking around, he saw that the Dunmer had indeed vanished and checking his belt showed him that so had the Golden Claw. Damn it all. "The Claw, it must have fallen off when that wight dropped me."

Faltur frowned. "Told you should we should've just killed the elf."

Lydia stepped between them. "We don't have time to argue, we need to get Claw back before that thief wakes up the entire tomb."

The Clan-Nord shook his head. "They're already awake." He gestured toward the smoking remains of the wights they killed. "When these ones woke, so did the rest. The elf won't get far."

"And I take it the dead won't want to give the Claw back?" Sebastien asked. Faltur nodded and he rolled his eyes. "Wonderful." Leaving the now-fully dead Nords behind, the three made their way deeper into the barrow.

After dodging the swinging blades that comprised some ancient trap in the hallway leading down, Sebastien and the Nords stumbled into the chamber beyond, and saw that the Dunmer they had been chasing facing them, a hideous rictus grin on his face. Beside him, one of the barrow-wights pulled its axe from his skull, and he collapsed to one side, sliding down into a slump and smearing blood and brains on the wall behind him. The creature hefted its axe and brought it down once more. This time, it lodged in there, and as the creature tried to pull it free, Sebastien charged, one hand burning with sunlight, as much as he could and threw the searing ball of magicka at the creature's head. The sound it made was like nothing he had ever heard, but Sebastien was beyond caring. He watched dispassionately as the creature staggered back, head aflame, and drew his sword as Lydia and Faltur did the same as more of the things emerged from various alcoves and sarcophagi. He shot bolts of sunlight at the archers as they charged the ones wielding axes and swords. Each blow was methodical and emotionless, and as he parried a slash that would have hit the seams in his armor, he was lost in the clash of steel on rusted steel and the bizarre serenity of the moment.

As he slowly returned to himself, he realized that all the barrow-wights were dead. He slowly dragged his sword from the chest of the wight it was buried in, black, foul-smelling embalming fluid clinging to the steel like dark blood. Lydia and Faltur were in similar states, standing over their own kills.

He looked over at the Dunmer, the only non-Nord corpse in the room. He could have been taking a short rest, if not for the bloody scene on the wall behind him and the axe sticking out of his skull. He noticed a pack in the Dunmer's hand; when he pulled it open, it was revealed to contain the Golden Claw, as well as a leatherbound journal. Reading through it, it became apparent that this was Arvel the Swift, who had masterminded this entire plot, planned to betray his compatriots, and hoped to find some power buried in this tomb by using the claw to somehow unlock a door. He looked over at the one-time thief. "You were given another chance and you squandered it. May the Devil take you."

"What's that journal say, Ciero?" Lydia asked, sheathing her sword.

Sebastien tied the Claw to his belt. "Nothing we didn't already know. The Claw is a key, though to what I can't say."

"The Puzzle Door. It'll be in the Hall of Stories." Faltur answered, wiping the dripping black fluid of his axe head. "Past that will be where the Dragonstone is buried."

"Let's get going then."

They reached a great hall eventually, dimly lit by torches that Sebastien could only assume were tended to by the dead. Faltur stepped forward, eyes wide behind his mane of red hair.

"This is the Hall of Stories," he said with reverence in his voice. "The ancients built these places to tell the stories of their gods and ancestors. We're close to the inner temple now. Tread carefully, this is a sacred place." As they moved forward, Faltur animatedly gestured toward the walls, where images and runes had been carved into the stone. "Look here, these murals - they depict the old gods of Atmora. You see? The hawk spreads it's wings over Kyne…goddess of storms and sky." Indeed, the mural showed a woman with a beaked hood standing under the spread wings of a hawk. Kyne was apparently closer in nature to Kynaree of High Rock than the Imperial Cult's Kynareth. She was missing the twin adamantium tridents, but the feathered cloak and harsh look was the same as the one Sebastien had seen depicted on stained glass and statues.

"The Royal Grand Marhsall of the Host of Hawks, Lady of the Skies and Seas, with feathered cloak and tridents in hand, the Wild Kings are driven back to the petty realms of Oblivion. She is Kynaree, Goddess of War, and her fury is a raging tempest that knows no bounds."

Faltur moved onto the next mural. This one depicted a terrible and mighty bearded king, sword and scepter in hand, underneath the pensive gaze of the fox. "And here… the fox. The sign of Shor. Even in death, the Lord of Sovngarde remains at his widow's side."

"Your countrymen in the west, they call him 'Sheor' don't they?" Lydia asked, turning toward Sebastien.

"Some do," He answered distantly. The mural of Sheor made him…uneasy. "Not many though, especially not among the peasantry, they think saying his name draws his attention. Children call him 'The Bad Man' and the Church calls him 'The Deceiver'. Most though…well most simply call him 'The Devil'." He was one of the contenders for the title anyway. The other two were Boethiah – the Foul Serpent, Wild King of Rebellions and Conspiracy, and Sithis – the Primordial Annihilator, the Is-Not who fathered all the evils in the world when he raped his daughter-granddaughter Namira.

"Dread Sheor, baleful shadow of the Void. His waggling tongue drips lies and flatteries and his harrowing touch poisons the earth and air with Sithis's malevolence. Bound is he to Mundus, a prisoner of his own creation, he wanders the earth as a lowly shade, bringing death and misery to those who welcome him into their home."

Of course, Sebastien wasn't about to say such things in front of Nords, he wasn't stupid.

Faltur turned toward the other wall and his excitement slowly fell away as his face grew grim. This mural depicted what appeared to be some great and terrible sorcerer surrounded by kneeling men.

"And this…a dragon priest. Leaders of the ancient Dragon Cult, rulers of men…yet servants of their draconic masters." He snorted derisively at the mural, as though its very existence offended him. "A slave, carved beside the gods. Their egos truly knew no limits." He turned back toward Sebastien and Lydia, his expression grim. "I expect we will find the Dragonstone buried with him. The inscription… 'Krosis'. It means 'sorrow' in the dragon tongue. Likely it was the name of the priest buried here. If this is the resting place of a high priest, it would explain the grand scale of this barrow…as well as its defenses." He pulled his axe from his back. "We must be cautious."

At the end of the Hall of Stories was a massive door bound with a great lock and three rings, with the claw clearly intended to go in the middle. Sebastien pulled the golden claw forth, and studied it briefly. The symbols on the claw obviously represented the correct sequence of the symbols on the door. With Faltur and Lydia's aid, the rings rotated easily; locking into place and allowing the claw to slide into its slot and trigger the door's release. The door slowly sunk into the earth, releasing a gust of ancient, frozen air that had even the Nords shuddering.

Entering the huge hall beyond the door, Sebastien briefly considered using night-eyes, but the grandeur of the scene urged him to experience it without magic. A waterfall crashed down, carved through the rock over untold ages, the distant ceiling was held up by massive columns as wide as two men across, and a huge wall with unknown writings dominated the far side of the cavern, illuminated by the midday sun peering through a giant hole in the ceiling.

The cavern wasn't empty though…

"Shor's bones," Lydia breathed. "A dragon!"

Perched atop the great stone wall was a dragon bathed in the dim light of the distant sun. Its head, crowned with a pair of horns, was resting atop its wings. It's here, Sebastien thought, his heart pounding in his chest, the sound so loud he was terrified that the dragon itself might hear it. Oriel and his court save me, it's here. His fears were for not, however, as the dragon – seemingly asleep – only shifted slightly atop its perch, its scales simmering in the cool midday light. Its…it's brown scales.

Sebastien shook his head. That-that wasn't right. He remembered… he remembered pressing himself flat against a stone wall. Ralof and Hadvar had been on either side of him as above them, the dragon stood, bellowing a furious torrent of blue-white flames from its maw. They had been standing right between its wings, thin membrane stretched between finger-like bones, but they had been black…blacker than even cursed ebony, not brown. Certainly not brown…

"We must not be seen. Follow me. Quickly and quietly."

Faltur's voice broke Sebastien out of his stupor. As silent as a church mouse, he crouched down alongside Lydia and Faltur. As silent as the grave (graves…graves are never silent, Sebastien thought, grimly amused) they slid down a small incline, falling on the stone and dirt floor of the cavern. Stalking forward, they quietly stepped into a shallow pool of water, fed by the waterfall. The water was freezing cold, the Nords, naturally, barely noticed, and Sebastien could only grit his teeth and bear with it. Hiding within the thin layer of mist lingering above the pool, they crept closer, making their way to the twin pillars. Faltur whispered to them, his voice thankfully hidden under the roar of the waterfall. "The stone must be there, at the altar. Right under the nose of the beast." The moved closer, ever slowly, as the dragon's head twitched… "If we are swift, we may…"

The dragon's head snapped to the side, hideous yellow eyes staring out at them in the darkness like lanterns. Yellow? Why are they yellow? They were red, weren't they? They're supposed to be red! Lydia stood and seized Sebastien's by his Mark-stained hand. "Get to cover, now!" She dragged him to the side, and they clung to the damp stone pillar as a red ball of fire roared towards them. The fireball crashed into the pillar and dissipated, as Sebastien seized his sword, his mind trying to think of a plan of attack while at the same time trying to justify why everything about the dragon seemed to be wrong.

The dragon sudden unfurled its wings and took to the air, soaring out of the cave into the open sky through the massive breach in the mountain, its tail hitting the rim of the hole and sending a cascade of debris to the ground below. Slowly, carefully, Sebastien and Lydia stepped out from behind their pillar as Faltur did the same across from them. "The beast is gone…for now." The Clan-Nord rumbled. "We are fortunate to be alive."

Sebastien didn't answer, he was staring at the wall where the dragon had been perched. He remembered Helgen, he remembered his head being pressed against the chopping block. He remembered the coppery smell of Nord's blood as it clung to his hair and face. He remembered the sight of the headsmen, garbed in black, raising his mighty axe to end his life. He remembered what he thought was to be his final hour. But above all he remembered the eyes. Those terrible eyes. Those red eyes staring down at him from the down, staring beneath a jagged crown of black horns and filled with a hideous hate. Hate for humanity, hate for Helgen, hate for him.

It's not the same dragon… There's more than one now…

A hand falling onto his shoulder dragged Sebastien away from his thoughts. He turned and saw Lydia looking at him in concern. "You alright, Ciero?"

"I-yes. I'm fine, korporal, don't worry."

"I would hope so, lest I make saving you a regular occurrence." Lydia may have been jesting, but her look was one of quiet uncertainty.

He smiled weakly. "I wouldn't dream of putting you through that, korporal."

They moved forward, wading through the shallow pool until they reached a great stone dais. In the center of the platform was a mighty stone sarcophagus, sealed tight and covered in twisting runes and hieroglyphs. "This must be the tomb of Krosis, perhaps the stone is buried with him." Faltur stepped forward and placed a meaty hand on the surface of the coffin. "The sarcophagus is sealed tight. Perhaps there may be something we can use to pry it open."

Sebastien did not hear him; he was transfixed by the great wall that dominated the dais. At its based, there was something inscribed in some unknown angular script. He approached the stone in a daze, its writing unfamiliar but oddly compelling. As he studied it, he felt the shapes ingrain themselves in his mind. He fancied that there was some echo of meaning etched into this carving, though he knew not what powerful magic had been used to accomplish this. His Marked hand drifted out and traced what he thought must be a word. No, he knew it to be a word. He did not know what it said, but understanding was so close. His hand made contact with the word…

Behind him, the lid of the sarcophagus shattered open, and another of the barrow-wights rose from its wreckage. This one was different than those before it had been. Instead of tattered armor, it was the remnant of some regal scaled cloak and robes. It wielded no axe or sword, but a steel staff with its head shaped like a dragon. The wight's face was hidden behind a mask of bronze, shaped with an expressionless visage.

The wight rose its arms and hissed a command. "Qiilaan us dilon!"

Sebastien did not understand the language, but it seemed Faltur did. The Clan-Nord raised his axe and bellowed out an answer. "I do not bow before dead men!" He charged the Priest, Lydia and Sebastien following behind him. The Dragon Priest raised its staff and summoned forth a spinning circle made from balls of fire. With a wave of its withered hand, the fire was sent flying forth, only to be met and consumed by bolts of lightning sent from Sebastien.

Sebastien summoned another crackling bolt and flung it at the wight, only for it crash against an unseen wall the wight formed. He gritted his teeth and sent another bolt, one after another, again and again as the Dragon Priest continued to block them with increasing strain. He was pushing against the ward, but his magicka was draining fast. It was then that Lydia swung her blade at the Wight, the strike sending sparks flying as it clashed against the steel staff. The korporal swung again, slashing against mummified flesh as the Priest swept back. Raising its clenched fist, the Lich conjured a spear of burning fire and flung it like a javelin, sending Lydia sprawling back, her tabard a charred ruin.

The Dragon Priest summoned another flaming javelin, ready to pierce Lydia's throat when Faltur charged forward. The Clan-Nord opened his mouth and drew a deep breath…

"FUS RO DA!"

A wave of unrelenting sound erupted from the skald's throat, sending the Dragon Priest flying back into a stone pillar, its staff flying from its hand. The Priest rose again, its tattered robes dripping wet. It raised its withered hand to summon its staff back, only for a whip of lightning to wrap around its throat. Sebastien seized the electric snare tight in his grip and yanked the Litch forward and away from its staff, an empty potion bottle lying at his feet. The Dragon Priest strained against the magic snare as it drained away the wight's magic, leaving it vulnerable.

The Nords happily exploited the Lich's restrained state, Lydia attacked the Priest with a flurry of slashes, chipping away its scaled cloak and rusted armor before Faltur swung his axe and buried it into the Priest's chest.

A harrowing death wail rattled from the Priest's throat and its body slowly burned away, turning into naught but ash. As its form crumbled, Krosis gave his final lament to his vanquishers.

"Frolaaz Zey, Drog Mirmulnir, zu'u lost funted hi."

With that, the Dragon Priest – Krosis of Bleak Falls Barrow – fell to the ground, now nothing more than dust and an empty mask. Sebastien stepped forward and picked up the bronze masque. Its empty face stared back up at him and he could feel the strange and powerful temporal magics that filled it. He couldn't tell precisely what it was enchanted with, not yet, but perhaps in time…

He stashed the mask away and picked up the staff as well. The staff was much simpler, made from simple steel and enchanted with various fire magics. It would likely be very valuable to any mage he might come across. He turned toward his companions, Faltur breathing heavily with his axe in one hand and Lydia standing in her charred tabard. "Let's find the stone then."

The Dragonstone was as Lydia has described it; a small stone tablet carved with what appeared to be a map of some kind, though what it led to, Sebastien had no way of knowing. Sure enough, it had been entombed alongside Krosis in his sarcophagus. Sebastien could only wonder just how many millennia had the Dragon Priest been there? Lying in wait with his stone waiting for his the day his master might return?

With the stone in hand, it was finally time to leave this barrow. There was a problem, however, and that was the fact that there appeared to be no apparent exit to the tomb other than the way they entered. Faltur waved their concerns away and gestured down at the floor of the dais, where a large stone circle was carved. He opened his mouth…

"BEX!"

… And the circled slowly lowered into the floor, revealing a small pit and a tunnel that presumably led to the outside. "Krosis's final secret," Faltur rumbled before dropping down into the tunnel, Lydia and Sebastien following suit.

"I've never seen magic like that." Sebastien had been fascinated by the vocal magic Faltur used. He hadn't expected a Nord tribal to be capable of such an obscure magic.

The Clan-Nord glanced back at him and shook his head. "It's not the clever-craft that you use, Man-Elf, it is the Thu'um.'

"The 'Thu'um?"

"The Voice," Faltur clarified. "Kyne taught us how when she shaped us on the Snow-Throat and to only use it in times of true need. Most have forgotten how to summon the Voice, but not the Old Clans. I am Tongue and I keep the Old Ways alive."

The tunnel eventually led to the outside, depositing them on a ledge bathed in the midday sun. Can it truly have been so short a time? It seemed like days since he had left Riverwood. They made their slow way down the mountain, Sebastien using the dragon-headed staff as a walking stick. They found the White River easily enough; the uncut trees floating down meant that they were upstream of the town. Facing northward, they began to walk.

As they reached the pair of horses awaiting at the base of the mountain, Lydia turned toward the Breton. Her opinion of the mercenary had warmed up slightly. He had fought alongside them and had made no attempt to extort or subvert them as she might have expected a sellsword to do. She nodded her head at Faltur's horse. "You can ride with Faltur as we head back to Whiterun, the Jarl is going to want to speak with you immediately about the dragon." To her surprise, the Breton merely shook his head and took the golden claw from his belt.

"No, I have to return this to Lucan first."

Lydia blinked. He wasn't serious, was he? "Ciero, a dragon is on the loose, the claw can wait. We have to return to Whiterun now."

Again, the Breton merely shook his head. "I gave my word, korporal, that this claw would be back in their hands before nightfall, and I will keep it to the letter." He waved them away. "Go ahead if you like, and I will meet you in Whiterun in the morning if you like, but I'm going to keep my word, korporal." With that, he turned away from them and began walking back to Riverwood.

Lydia started forward, intent on continuing the argument when Faltur's massive hand fell on her shoulder. The Clan-Nord shook his head when she turned to face him. "You cannot force a man to break his word and should not take it as an insult when he chooses to keep it." The skald rumbled. "There is already a dragon about as you said, and possibly more than one at that. A day's wait will make little difference."

Lydia sighed, knowing he was right. The two took to their horses and left for Whiterun. As they rode, she could only hope that their might still be a city left when Ciero returned in the morning.

Lucan Valerius was overjoyed to have his claw back, and happily handed Sebastien a purse with twelve sovereigns within. Each of the heavy coins was worth twenty-five of the smaller septims. Lucan had never seen anything like the mask before and advised him to sell both it and the staff in Whiterun, as he could get a much better price for them there. He also gave him some advice for free, letting know that the monsters in the tomb were called draugr, Nord dead from long before recorded history. That they were walking about was likely because the bandits had disturbed their tomb, but Sebastien couldn't help but feel it may have had more to do with the dragon they had found within the barrow.

He should have told the korporal of his fears, that already there was more than one dragon about, but his eagerness to fill his promise had gotten the better of him. Each good deed supposedly made his sentence just a fraction shorter, but he had no way of telling how close or how far he was from the day that it would be fulfilled in full. Speaking of good deeds, Camilla was nowhere to be seen, and Sebastien had told Lucan to wish her well on his behalf. He bid the shopkeep farewell and made his way back to the inn, where he handed over fifty septims to the innkeep for a bed, a meal now, one more that evening, a final one in the morning, and the right to curse anyone who disturbed his sleep. Delphine's lips quirked upward at the last request, but she agreed readily enough. He ate without tasting, stumbled into the room assigned to him, dropped his gear on the floor unceremoniously, and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

When he awoke, he pulled back the curtain to see that the moons were high over the mountains, and that the stars burned bright in the sky. That likely meant he was late for supper, though he suspected that, having paid, he could wrangle something out of Delphine or her assistant. Although he was still tired and would happily return to bed after eating, he should go out into the common hall. His throat was dry and his stomach aching from hunger, despite having eaten not long ago. With a groan, he moved to the door and pushed it open. Without, Delphine was wiping down the bar while a few last patrons sat at the tables in various states of inebriation. No bard was playing, and the quiet suited his mood just fine.

As he approached the bar to inquire about food, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Camilla there, smiling slightly.

"I had heard you returned, and was hoping to see you before you departed. I asked Delphine to prepare a special meal. Won't you join me?"

As she led him to the table she had indicated, Sebastien reflected that she was either very patient or had a good sense of timing. It was far too late for any reasonable person to be taking their evening meal. They sat, and the assistant brought out choice cuts of meat and vegetables roasted to perfection. Camilla dug in with clear enjoyment, and Sebastien was hard-pressed to not shovel it into his mouth. Not only was he outrageously hungry, but the food itself was exquisite. They ate in silence for a few minutes, and then she began quizzing him about his journey up into the barrow, wanting to know every detail. He told her most of it, leaving out his strange experience with the wall, as he was till unsure why it happened in the first place. When he was done, and she made several appreciative noises for his story, Camilla reached under the table and drew out a folded bundle of cloth.

"Here, this is for you." She handed it to him, and he accepted it, his curiosity piqued.

"Merci, ah, thank you," He clarified when he remembered she didn't speak Bretic. He unraveled it, prepared to thank her either honestly or out of appreciation for the effort, but when he saw what she had done words failed him. The undershirt was deep blue and felt as though it was made from silk. The gambeson was a vibrant scarlet red, and padded heavily with hardy cloth. On the chest was the crest of House Ciero, the winged hourglass stitched in vibrant gold thread. The pants were fine black linen in a style that he knew to be fashionable in Nibenay. A supple leather belt adorned with a silver buckle and weapon loops completed the ensemble. With garb like this, he would not need to fear the scorn of the Jarl or his court, or the cold of Skyrim when he went to Whiterun.

"This is, I mean, you," words failed him. For once, he had no idea how to respond, or what to say.

Camilla smiled impishly. "Oh, did I steal the great speaker's voice away?" You who 'brought truth to the innocent'? Here her voice took on a mockery of his Iliac accent, and her smile widened.

He fell back on his most basic courtesies, still unsure of how to precede. "It is magnificent, and I am honored to accept it." He realized something. "This morning you did not know this symbol." He tapped the hourglass. "Did you make this?"

Her smile changed subtly and Sebastien knew that she was pleased with his response. "I liked the hourglass when I saw it this morning, and it fits you well. You seem to be proud of it, and I wanted to make the clothes show that you were special." Her cheeks reddened and only looking back in hindsight (and sobriety) did Sebastien acknowledge that he really should have realized where the conversation was heading at that point.

Unfortunately for both Sebastien and Camilla alike, it wasn't until she was standing in the middle of his room with her breasts bare did his tipsy mind finally put the pieces together. In any case, Sebastien sobered instantly and approached Camilla, her tentatively hopeful smile falling as her very gently fixed her top back in place.

"I…I don't understand, did I offend you somehow?" She asked looking at him with her large eyes hurt and confused.

"No, you did nothing wrong, Camilla, believe me." He answered quietly.

"Then why-"

"Camilla Valerius, you are a beautiful and intelligent young woman, and many men would be incredibly lucky to have your attention, but I am afraid I can't be one of them, or else I fear I might ruin you."

"Ruin me? How could you ruin me, Sebastien, you've been nothing but kind to me and my brother."

"That because you have been fortunate enough to not know me for very long." Sebastien's voice was low and somber, and filled with no small amount of self-contempt. "I told, Camilla, never offer your heart so freely."

Camilla was frowning, but she wasn't angry or sad, merely disappointed and perhaps pitying. Sebastien could only hope it wasn't the latter. There was only so much pity he could stomach. "You would offer me a briar heart as well then?" she asked softly.

He smiled sadly and pressed a sweet kiss to her forehead. "Camilla," he said quietly. "Brave, wonderful Camilla. I doubt I have even that much left to give anymore."

She left his room not long after and Sebastien went to bed, hoping that in the morning he might not feel so heartless.

"Qiilaan us dilon!" Translation: "Bow before the Dead!" Language: Dovazhul.

"Frolaaz Zey, Drog Mirmulnir, zu'u lost funted hi." Translation: "Forgive me, Lord Mirmulnir, I have failed you." Language: Dovazhul.

The Church of the Court of Heaven, also simply known as the Church, is the predominant religion within High Rock. Founded in the late Merethic Era by St. Nandyon Direnni, it serves as a synchronization between the Anuic Aldmer Pantheon and the Padomayic nature-focused faith practiced by the Druids of Galen. The Church's influence on politics have never been particularly strong, especially after conflict with the Nordic Empire and Alessian Order taught the Bretons of the dangers of 'excessive faith'. It is pantheon consisting of ten primary gods and several lesser gods, all headed by Oriel Akatosh, God-King of High Rock and the Bretons and patron of kings, time, order, good governance, and civilization. It is followed in popularity by the Imperial Cult, Reachmen paganism and the worship of nature-embodying faefolk by the Wyresses.

The Devil is a term used to describe either one of three gods. Sheor as the deceiver of men, Boethiah as the usurper of kings, or Sithis as the destroyer of all.

AN: This is really where the 'expanding on the story' part promised in the summary starts. It also expands a little, as least somewhat, on my personal version of Breton culture in the game, with some inspiration from Project Tamriel and their 'Gods of the Rock' page. As you can probably guess, we will be seeing Lyida (and Faltur) again very soon, as well as Mirmulnir. Next time, Sebastien finally reaches Whiterun. The scene within Krosis's tomb was heavily influenced by the Skyrim: Extended Cut preview. I am so looking forward to playing that mod when it comes out. Until next time, take care folks, - Bones